


Catching Feelings

by soft_mikhailo



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Little League AU, M/M, Rekindled Romance, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_mikhailo/pseuds/soft_mikhailo
Summary: An unlikely friendship between two closeted Little League teammates is on the cusp of growing into something more, but all of that changes when they're abruptly torn apart by unforeseen circumstances. Never forgetting the other, yet forced to move on with their lives, their paths unexpectedly cross on the baseball field 25 years later.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 42
Kudos: 99





	1. dusty butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ever multi-chap fic, and I'm really excited to be sharing it! huge thank you to Niamh for being my brilliant sounding board, and many thanks to all of those who have continued to support me :) <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/soft_mikhailo)

“Alright, good practice, everyone! Gallagher, try working on those techniques I showed you to help line up your body to the ball. You should have it down in no time,” Coach gave Ian a supportive pat on the shoulder as he and his teammates made their way off the field.

Everyone had just finished an exhausting practice and were struggling to catch their breath, their soles kicking up dirt that suffocated the fresh spring air. It was a warm May afternoon, the blazing sun foreshadowing the choking summer heat that was fast approaching. For most kids at school, this was their favorite time of year. The lengthening days aroused a collective jubilation of another year coming to an end. The changes were palpable — moods were higher, spirits were brighter, and things seemed just a little bit easier knowing there was an end in sight. But spring also brought with it a new kind of delight; the budding of burgeoning relationships, fluttering pulses concealed under the magnetism of a first kiss, and of adolescent hearts succumbing to the fever of flowering new love.

“And, Milkovich! If I see you pull that shit again, you’re off the team. Don’t need the pitcher’s mound smelling like piss for our game this weekend. Got it?” Coach yelled after Mickey, watching him walk off the field. 

Mickey huffed in response as they all headed back to the locker room to change and go home for the day. He knew it was an empty threat. Coach had told him just last week that he was the best on their team. Mickey could get away with practically anything at this point, even if it meant pissing on the field. There was no way Coach would risk getting rid of their star player, not if he wanted them to make it to the play-offs.

"Ay, freckleface! Why don't you try actually _hitting_ the ball next time?" Mickey snickered as he walked over to his locker and kicked off his shoes.

Sitting on the bench untying his cleats, Ian sighed in feigned annoyance, "Ha ha, very funny. You know, you have freckles too, Mickey.”

Actually, he thought Mickey’s freckles were one of his best features. They were subtle, like the faint glow of stars on a foggy evening, and Ian adored how they peppered the outline of his face. There must have been dozens — no, hundreds — of them that danced across the contours of his cheeks. Most of the time, when his teachers reprimanded him for not paying attention in class, he was dreaming about what it would be like to connect them all, delicately tracing them into shapes with his fingertips, naming each constellation.

Ian was used to Mickey calling him stupid names and poking fun at his gingered complexion. Every once in a while it got under his skin but, for the most part, he really didn't mind it much. He knew that Mickey was only teasing. He had seen the way Mickey would blatantly bully other kids at school — give them wedgies, shove them into lockers, demand their lunch money — but it was never that serious with Ian. They were on a team, after all, and Coach always said that being on a team was like being part of a family. No matter how much you might yell or fight or hate each other's guts after losing a game, the bonds you form and the friendships you make on a team last a lifetime.

And, if he was being honest, Ian kind of liked getting attention from the brattiest boy in middle school. He liked how Mickey would find a way to weasel Ian into his conversations, or sneak a cheeky grin at him from across the classroom when someone would so much as allude the word “ginger”. Part of him quietly hoped that the teasing was indicative of something else, an underlying admiration he had for him, perhaps, but was only keeping it secret for his own protection. He knew that admitting a crush on another boy could be a death sentence in their neighborhood, but even if his crush on Mickey was unrequited, the other part of him really just wanted to have a friend. They never once hung out after school, but Ian was longing for _someone_ with whom he could play the newest Call of Duty or watch the latest action flick. It was hard making friends as a shy skinny ginger in the South Side, and the playful mocking he received from Mickey was the closest thing he had to friendship.

"Yeah, but mine don’t look like someone confused my face for an art project and went all crazy with the polka dots,” Mickey sneered, changing out of his uniform and working on unbuttoning his baseball jersey, dressed in just his favorite blue tank top he had on underneath.

Ian looked up from his shoelaces to catch a brief glimpse of the shimmering reflection of sweat that danced across Mickey’s biceps, feeling a surge of butterflies rip through his gut. He quickly averted his eyes back down to the floor, hoping that no one noticed his eyes lingering a split second longer than they should have. "Come on Mickey, cut it out," he protested weakly.

Mickey knew what Ian was doing. He’d seen him do it a hundred times before. Mickey would find something to pick on Ian about in the locker room immediately after practice — usually his hair or his embarrassing baseball skills that needed serious work — Ian would act like he was hurt and bothered, but then try to sneak a glance at Mickey changing when his back was turned. Little did Ian know that Mickey had impeccable peripheral vision, and every time he caught Ian gawking at him, his heart skipped a beat and he puffed his chest out just a little bit more. 

Mickey was never one to _like_ people. When all the boys in elementary school were pulling on pigtails or talking about the girls in class they thought were pretty, he never did. He was never interested. He’d much rather spend his time holding an annoying classmate in a headlock or spray painting profanities on the side of reputable neighborhood establishments. 

In fact, Mickey was having a hard time coming to terms with the concept that he had a crush at all, let alone on a dude, and spent a fair amount of time trying to suppress it. But there was something undeniable about the way that Ian looked at him with those emerald eyes or flashed him that dorky smile that made his stomach do cartwheels. Sometimes at practice he had a hard time knowing if he was about to be sick all over his uniform or if that damn Gallagher kid was just putting another spell on him. 

Ian was quiet, unlike all the other loudmouthed idiots in the 8th grade, and always seemed to have something important to say but never the nerve to spit it out. He was a complex enigma that Mickey wanted to unravel, yet among all the unknowns, there was a warmth about his presence that made Mickey feel like he was blanketed in comfort. Like he was _safe._

"I'll think about it...but only after you hit a home run first," Mickey retorted as he turned back to face Ian, sticking his tongue out at him in defiance.

Normally, Ian would fake acquiescence, holding up both of his hands as he yielded to the precision of Mickey’s wit. This day, however, Ian was feeling bold, and wanted Mickey to know that he wasn’t backing down without a fight. 

"I'll hit a home run after _you_ learn how to pitch. Maybe you should work on your curveball so I don't _have_ to strike out every time," his unfolding smug countenance sent an arrow straight through Mickey’s heart.

The other boys in the locker room let out a chorus of "Ohhh's!" so loud someone would think they had just heard the biggest diss of their adolescent lives.

Mickey couldn’t believe what was happening before him. Shy, reserved, dorky, innocent, cute as hell Ian Gallagher just bested him in a battle of wits, and he needed to get the hell out of there before anyone saw the flustered blush creep up his face. How did Ian know exactly what to say to get his heart racing? Too impressed to come up with a counter, Mickey abruptly slammed his locker door shut, smirked, and flipped Ian the finger as he walked out of the room. Ian watched intently until the door had closed behind him, upon which he smiled silently to himself, knowing he had won this match.

* * *

Mickey spent most of his walk home criticizing himself for all of the comebacks he should have been able to think of on the spot. He’d be damned if he was going to let something like that happen again. He feared that once Ian knew his weak spot, knew what to say to gain control, he was going to use it to his advantage, and Mickey was certain that new found mouth of his was going to send him into cardiac arrest. As much as it made his chest constrict thinking about this increasingly impossible task of staying away from Ian, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like how this new “problem” had placed him right at the forefront of his mind.

When Mickey walked through the front door and into the living room, he found Terry shitfaced and sprawled out on the sofa, downing what looked like his tenth beer that day. He could tell that Terry was in one of those moods where all someone had to do was look at him wrong, and he would rush to aim a pistol down their throat. Typically, Mickey was able to recognize these moods from miles away and resolve to avoid confrontation with Terry at all costs. Today, however, he had Ian Gallagher clouding up his brain and wouldn’t have been able to keep his mouth shut even if he tried.

“You’re coming with me on a run out of town this weekend,” Terry demanded, keeping his eyes glued to the television screen.

“Can’t. I have a big baseball game this weekend,” Mickey felt typical adolescent annoyance setting in. He was sick and tired of Terry trying to control every aspect of his life. He finally found something he was good at and Terry was hellbent on doing whatever he could to take that away.

“Well, you’re not going. Aren’t you just a ball boy, anyways? Doubt they’ll even miss ya,” Terry belched.

Mickey set his jaw and felt his ears burn hot with anger, “No, Pops. I’m, like, one of the most important players on the team.”

Sensing his son’s defiance, Terry suddenly became more engaged in the conversation, and turned his face to glare at Mickey with piercing daggers, “I don’t give a shit if I have to break your fucking arms to stop you. You’re not going.”

“You’re just pissed because I’m actually gonna make something of myself, unlike your fat ass that just sits around drinking beer all day and watching porn!” _Oh shit_. As soon as the words came flying out of his mouth, Mickey wished that he could take them all back. Of course he knew better than to talk back to a drunk Terry like that. Whatever was about to come next, he knew it wouldn't be pretty, but like hell he was going to let Terry try to ruin the first good day he had in awhile. 

“The fuck you just say to me?” Terry’s voice was low and monstrous as he got up off the couch and slowly closed in on Mickey. 

“I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean-” Mickey pleaded, but it was already too late.

With a deafening crack, Terry’s fist blasted into his son’s skull.

* * *

It wasn’t until Ian had finished changing and everyone else had gone home that he noticed Mickey left his baseball jersey behind on the bench in front of his locker. He figured Mickey must have forgotten it after he shocked him with the unexpected banter. Looking for another excuse to see him after practice, Ian decided to walk to the Milkovich house to return it. 

Ian leisurely strolled towards Mickey's house losing himself in the scent of the crisp breeze and hint of floral perfumes. He wondered if Mickey smelled exactly the same, longing to be close enough to breathe the same air and confirm his speculation. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this elated, and resolved that he would spend the rest of his afternoons daydreaming about Mickey's soft complexion and intoxicating aroma, as long as he could remain suspended in the euphoria of first love.

As Ian got closer, he heard yelling come from inside the house that got louder with each approaching step. The shouting sounded intensely aggressive, and Ian swore that he could also hear the commotion of shattering glass and bodies slamming into walls. He could only guess that the booming voice screaming profanities was coming from Terry. Terry Milkovich always had a reputation for anger issues and violence, and there had been rumors around school that he was known to beat up his own children, too. Ian had seen Mickey come into school with strange bruises on his arms, neck, and face a few times before, but it wasn’t that difficult to assume he had just gotten into a fist fight with another kid. Ian’s heart dropped at the realization that those marks really belonged to Terry. His pulse quickened and palms perspired at the mental image of Mickey being alone in there with him and felt the blood drain from his face as he pictured him in there fending for himself. What if Mickey was hurt? What if he was in serious danger?

Ian heard the voices become closer and less muffled as the front door to the Milkovich house swung wide open. Startled, he quickly ducked behind the closest parked car across the street. 

“You stupid piece of shit! Get outta my house!” Terry roared. 

Mickey was shoved out the front door with alarming force and stumbled down the steps, nearly cracking his face into the concrete before catching himself on his hands and knees on the sidewalk. The door slammed behind him as he tried to gather his bearings and shakily make his way to stand on two feet. This certainly wasn’t the first time Terry had beat the shit out of him over something so minuscule, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, Mickey’s heart ached with betrayal even harder knowing that just minutes before he was riding an untempered high but was instantly thrust into an incapacitating low. He wanted to stay there forever pressed against the cool concrete and let the ground swallow him whole, but he knew he couldn’t live with himself if he let Terry think he’d won.

Peeking his head out from behind the car, Ian saw that the front of Mickey’s once baby blue shirt was now soaked and stained with deep crimson. He had bruises silhouetting his eyes and cheekbones, his lips were busted and swollen, and his nose was gushing blood, pouring rivers down his chin. Mickey looked like absolute shit and Ian was terrified -- not terrified of Terry, but terrified _for_ Mickey. 

Ian slowly crept out from behind the car, and started making his way across the street. He was almost to the sidewalk where Mickey stood when Mickey looked up at him, stopping him dead in his tracks. Ian stood there breathless with his mouth slightly agape, clutching Mickey’s sweaty jersey with both hands and holding it close to his chest. For what felt like eternity, but was only a passing moment, their gazes locked — Mickey’s icy glare sent shivers down Ian’s spine, and Ian’s pitying hold made Mickey sick with humiliation. He could see Mickey’s bloodshot eyes welling with tears and quickly felt his doing the same. 

Nausea overtook Mickey as his face paled a ghostly white despite his flushing embarrassment. Ian was frozen in space, his limbs numb with horror. He tried to speak, but all he could muster was a measly croak, his voice feeling like it had been ripped right out of his throat. While Ian stood there petrified, Mickey felt all the blood that Terry didn’t beat out of him pool in his legs and feet, surging adrenaline through his veins, and before Ian knew it, Mickey took off running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cute shit coming next chapter, so stay tuned...


	2. falling for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "falling for u" - mxmtoon

Ian was sad to discover that Mickey hadn’t come to school the next day. He considered chasing after him following their horrifying encounter, but the athletic boy was far too fast for him to catch and Ian figured that waiting around the Milkovich house for him to come back probably wasn’t the safest idea. The worry was all-consuming — he could hardly focus on anything the entire day, and was pretty sure he’d failed a test or two because of it. The empty seat next to him in science class left a gaping hole in his chest as he thought about how he missed Mickey’s retorts to their teacher’s stupid jokes. By the time practice rolled around, his worry transformed into guilt. Why hadn’t he attempted to chase after Mickey or even try harder to make sure he was ok? The racing thoughts gnawed away at him, and he knew he needed to go find Mickey to ease the rising panic inside. 

When practice ended, Ian changed out of his uniform and back into his regular clothes at lightning speed before making his way to the Milkovich house. He was feeling oddly brave as he mentally prepared himself to knock on the door and face Terry. He had no clue if he would beat the shit out of him for simply coming to check on Mickey, but he had to try, right? 

On a whim, however, he decided to stop at the park around the corner from Mickey’s house first in case he was hiding there. Mickey had his usual hangout spot by the dumpster caddy-corner from the swing set where Ian had seen him loitering many times before. Call it a hunch, call it intuition, call it cellular magnetism, Ian was drawn there, and was relieved when he saw Mickey exactly where he thought he would be, sitting on the ground leaning up against the dumpster, chain smoking cigarettes.

“Hey,” Ian approached him softly. “Didn’t see you at school today. Just wanted to make sure you’re ok.” He winced as he moved closer and saw the extent of the other boy’s injuries -- his right eye accentuated with black and blue, a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken, and swollen cuts on his cheek stained with dried blood.

Mickey took a deep inhale of his cigarette and flicked the ashes into the ground, avoiding looking at the redhead standing before him. There was a small part of him that was happy to see Ian, but it was mostly smothered by anger and embarrassment of what had happened the day before. 

“Don’t need you playing babysitter, alright? I’m fine.”

Ian pleaded with desperation, “You look like shit, Mickey. Did someone take a look at that? You should really have someone-”

“I said I’m fine. Just leave me alone,” Mickey replied with annoyance, his voice slightly more terse.

Tired of his teammate always trying to act like the independent tough guy, Ian’s patience quickly wore thin as he shouted, “Oh, come on, Mickey! Your dad just beat the shit out of you-”

“Jesus Christ! Leave me the hell alone, Gallagher!” Ian’s insistence had pressure rising in Mickey’s chest and blood boiling so hot he thought he was going to explode. Knowing he needed space before he did something he’d regret, he sprung to his feet, and shoved the other boy in the shoulders. Ian caught himself from stumbling backward and allowed Mickey to walk a few yards away before yelling after him. 

“He’s wrong, you know,” Ian said firmly, using all the courage he could muster. He knew what Mickey was capable of and wasn’t completely convinced he wouldn’t punch him in the face if given the chance, but he wasn’t about to let him walk away without hearing what he had to say, and told himself it was worth the risk.

Mickey stopped and sighed in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose, “What’re you even talkin’ about right now?” 

An unfamiliar bravery shook through Ian’s bones. Not knowing what came over him, he felt like he was watching himself from outside his body as the words tumbled out of his mouth, “He said you’re stupid. He’s wrong.” 

Ian took a deep breath before continuing, “I see the way you look over at my paper to copy, but only after you’ve already written down the answer to every question. I know you try to be a slacker and you never come in with your homework done, and you don’t even remember to bring your backpack sometimes. But I know it’s all an act.” His voice softened as Mickey turned to face him. “You’re better than that. You’re smart.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, huffed, and lifted his eyebrows in disagreement, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

Inching closer, Ian whispered, “You’re not a piece of shit, Mickey. You’re a good person.”

The sincerity in his tone and disappearing space between them instantly made Mickey’s insides melt, and the anger that was edging in his chest just moments before was replaced with warmth that threatened to force his legs to give out. Any distance that he had been craving previously began to dissipate, not wanting to push away the boy who so obviously cared more about him than anyone else in his life ever had. He couldn’t believe that Ian had noticed all of that. Was he really that obvious, or did the redhead just have a way of peering into the deepest recesses of his being? What else did Ian see in him in those moments he thought no one was looking? 

Needing to maintain his tough exterior despite his thawing insides, Mickey scoffed, turned on his heel and began to walk away. Ian thought for sure he had done it this time, that he had pushed one too many buttons and had ruined any chance of a friendship with the breathtaking brunet. He steeled himself, fully expecting to see Mickey leave for the second time, or even turn back at the last second to deck him in the face. So he was surprised when Mickey, instead, made his way over to the nearby swing set and plopped himself down on a swing, tossing his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. 

He sat there for a moment, the swing softly rocking him back and forth, heels scuffing the ground. Not feeling brave enough to look at the other boy staring at him, he focused his attention on the way his foot drew patterns in the mulch, until Ian felt pulled to come over and sit on the swing next to him. Completely unsure of what, if anything, to say, Ian was grateful when Mickey broke the silence.

“Doesn’t matter, anyways. My dad’s already got my whole life planned out for me. I’m a Milkovich, and Milkovich’s are only good at one thing,” he said with an acid tongue.

“You’re good at baseball,” Ian corrected. “Coach even said that you’re the best player on our team. Well, when you’re focused,” he said with a muted chuckle. “I mean, I've never seen anyone our age hit a ball as far as you can. Who knows, maybe you could even make it big one day...join the Major Leagues.” Ian peered over at him, enamored by the way his black locks danced through the breeze. 

“Doubt it,” Mickey snorted. Sensing green eyes boring into him, he brought his head up to meet their gaze and felt like all oxygen had been sucked out of his lungs. He wondered if Ian could feel his heart pounding in his chest simply by looking at him, like the act of locking eyes would expose his inner emotions and all he had worked to keep secret would come crumbling down before him. Feeling exposed, he quickly averted his eyes back down to his feet, scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment, gave the smallest hint of a smile and said, “Thanks.”

With the way his heart raced, Ian was convinced he couldn’t ever witness Mickey smile without feeling like he’d just taken a lethal dose of caffeine. If he wasn’t careful, the rosy cheeks that raised to kiss their neighboring lower eyelids would surely make him flat-line.

They both sat in silence for a bit, allowing the movement of the swings to soothe the nervous fluttering in their bellies, just enjoying each other’s company, and listening to the echoes of laughter coming from the other children in the park. 

“Think you’ll be back to school tomorrow?” Ian muttered.

“What do you care?” Mickey demanded, trying too hard to act like he _didn’t_ care what Ian thought, though it came off harsher than he intended.

Ian wanted to tell him how much he missed him, how the classroom felt lopsided and empty when he wasn’t there, how they weren’t really a team when their all-star player wasn’t causing chaos on the field. Instead, attempting to play it cool, he replied, “Mr. Baker made a stupid joke in science class today I think you would’ve liked, but it’s not as funny if tell it. Plus, we kinda need you at practice if we’re supposed to beat The Hawks this weekend.” 

“Oh, yeah? What’s the joke?” 

It wasn’t long before the boys practically had each other rolling around on the ground in stitches, laughing about all the ridiculous shit their teacher would say. Ian was surprised how effortless it was to talk to Mickey about everyday things — their favorite and least favorite teachers, which of their classmates was particularly annoying them that week, and how stupid their principal looked with that ugly tie that he wore _every damn day_. He thought for sure Mickey would have eventually gotten tired of hearing him run his mouth with a voice that hadn’t yet begun to drop, which is why he felt extra proud every time he cracked a corny joke that had the brunet struggling to hold in a giggle and, ultimately, failing.

Mickey had a hard time believing how easily he and the redhead could hold a conversation without calling each other names or taking jabs at one another. He never felt comfortable opening up to others in this way, probably because he’d never really had a friend before. No one ever went out of his way to talk to him or ask him his opinion on anything, not to mention his family basically ignored him half of the time. He liked the feeling of having someone interested in what he had to say, especially when that someone actually _listened._ Home was supposed to be a place, a room you could run to, a bed you could bury yourself in — but the sound of Ian’s lilting laughter and the shine of his hair glimmering in the twilight had Mickey wondering if home was perhaps a person after all.

They continued to sit there for hours, allowing the casual conversation to distract them from their infatuated jitters, laughing and talking until the sun had fallen just below the horizon. 

“I like hangin’ out with you, Mickey,” Ian stated after they had managed to reign in their laughter.

“Yeah, you’re not so bad yourself, Gallagher. I know I always make fun of your hair and freckles and stuff, but it’s kinda growin’ on me.” 

"It is?"

“Yeah, ‘s not so bad. Who else can say they’re friends with Clifford the Big Red Dog’s long lost brother?" Mickey teased with a wink and a chuckle. Ian cracked a smile and playfully punched him in the shoulder, trying not to draw attention to the way his head spun at the other boy’s admission that he was his _friend._

From that moment on, Mickey and Ian weren’t just friends, they were best friends. Quickly discovering they had a decent amount in common, and more than just baseball, they started doing everything together. Mickey would come by Ian’s house in the morning so they could walk to school, they sat together at lunch, and walked home together after practice. Mickey would come over a couple nights a week to play video games, and Fiona would even invite him to stay for dinner occasionally. Sometimes, when Terry was out on a run for a weekend, Mickey would have Ian stay for a sleepover where they’d watch their favorite movies, have a few beers, smoke a joint, and down entire bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos and BBQ Pringles, staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning, hysterically laughing at the dumbest shit. Pretty soon, though, their sleepovers and movie marathons became a weekly tradition, and the Gallagher’s had to accept the fact that their interactions with Ian on the weekend were going to be few and far between.

Their sleepovers were only ever platonic, Ian sleeping on the floor next to Mickey and never sharing a bed. However, Ian often wondered how his nervous system might short circuit if one day Mickey’s hand snaked its way into his while they watched a scary movie, and Mickey found himself dreaming about how his lips might tingle if Ian were to sneak a quick kiss the next time they wrestled around on the living room floor. 

Of course, they both knew better than to have these images flood their fantasies, especially in _this_ neighborhood where admitting you liked a boy was a one way ticket to getting your teeth knocked out of your skull.

Before Ian, Mickey had never foreseen a day where he’d feel free enough to invite another hand to join his or linger in the soft press of masculine lips against his. But in the hidden corners of his soul, he felt that maybe, with Ian, he could learn to accept the parts of himself he’d been taught to hate the most. Maybe. Despite how invincible Ian made him feel, however, he continued to keep his secret held deep in the hollows of his chest, knowing that if his dad ever found out, he wouldn't live to see the next day. 

Liking each other was dangerous and forbidden, a reality they had difficulty accepting. But that didn’t stop them from lying awake in their own beds night after night until the break of dawn, asking themselves if the other ever dreamt about the same things.

* * *

Between the rush of the end of school year and the increasing frequency of Little League games as the season drew to a close, the next several weeks flew by. Soon it was the last weekend of June, the Chicago sun threatening to blister the palest of complexions. This particular Saturday, Ian was over at Mickey’s watching one of their favorite action movies, alternating hits from a fat joint Mickey rolled on the coffee table in front of them that was cluttered with old beer cans and Cheeto crumbs.

The weed quickly made its way to the depths of their cortices, distorting their senses and blurring the lines between thought and feeling. Normally when they watched movies, Mickey established a no talking rule to keep Ian from babbling on about the random irrelevant trivia he knew about the film. Tonight, however, when Ian turned to speak, instead of shushing him or shoving a pillow in his face, Mickey leaned in just a tiny bit closer, his buzz daring him to be just as chatty.

"Hey, Mickey. Where do you see yourself in 30 years?" Ian asked as he took their second joint of the night from Mickey’s hands and put it between his lips, bringing his hands up to give it a light. 

Shoving a fistful of potato chips into his mouth, Mickey remarked, "Probably in prison for some shit Terry got me sucked into.” He let out a loud belch before asking, “Why?"

"I'm serious,” Ian exhaled, passing the joint back to Mickey, his eyes stern. The last thing he wanted to do was picture Mickey in prison. In fact, the very thought alone sent shivers down his spine. 

After taking an insanely long drag, Mickey exhaled, a thick plume of smoke billowing from his nose and raised his eyebrows, "So am I.” The slight tilt of his head and flick of his tongue across his lips sent a burning through Ian’s core.

Trying to redirect the conversation and his focus, Ian replied, "Okayyy...I guess what I'm really asking is, in your dream world, where would you _want_ to be in 30 years?"

Feeling playful, Mickey joked, "Well, after I retire from the the White Sox, I'll be livin’ it up in my 10 million dollar mansion on the North Side. Get me some fancy butlers who do all the cookin’ and cleanin’ and have to carry me around everywhere on a throne and shit. And there won’t be anyone around to control me, no one tellin’ me what to do or who to be. Just me and my 50 robot butlers who make sure that anyone who tries to bother me pisses the hell off." The boys erupt in laughter at the absurdity of the visual, Ian stealing the joint back from Mickey before he had the chance to sneak another hit.

When they settled their giggles, Mickey inhaled again and asked with a tone more serious, "What about you?"

Ian sensed a shift in the atmosphere that threatened to leave his heart exposed. "I dunno, I think it'd be nice to have a family someday. Move somewhere warmer, like Florida or California. Someplace with a beach where I can fall asleep to the sound of the ocean,” he sighed.

Funny, Mickey also liked to dream about living on the beach whenever the darkness of winter made him stir crazy. His mind flashed to images of him and Ian in the future, splashing in the ocean, watching the setting sun dance on the waves, and wrestling in the sand outside of their beachfront home. Unsure of how long he had been lost in thought, anxiety washed over him as his intoxicated mind told him that if he focused for too long, his dreams would somehow project themselves on the television screen, leaving his unbridled fantasties on full display. He abruptly shook his head to brush them away and quietly agreed, "Beaches are nice.”

The subsequent silence rang loudly in their ears as the drug really started to hit them, both boys too stoned to move for fear of dissolving into the sofa, and too anxious to look at each other in case the other could read their thoughts. When the bulk of their high had passed and they were able to form relatively coherent sentences again, Ian thought back to his earlier question about the future. He had spent years not knowing Mickey the way he did now, not knowing the beauty of his companionship, yet he suddenly found himself unable to picture his life without him. This friendship that blossomed so quickly and with such magnitude, this friendship that was at the precipice of something far greater, threatened to shake Ian at his very core. What would his future even be like without Mickey? 

"Hey, Mick," he asked faintly. "You think we'll still be friends when we're older?"

Ian’s pointed question sent the other boy’s heart thumping against his ribs. What if he actually wanted to be more than friends? Mickey wondered if he would ever feel safe enough to be himself and face the reality of how he felt. He didn’t know what his future held, but hoped, at the very least, he wouldn’t have to go at it alone. His friendship with Ian meant more to him than he could ever feel comfortable enough putting into words and he shuddered at the thought of going back to spending Saturday nights alone with his thoughts again. He relied on the way he got lost in his presence to tell him that all the time in the world with him would never be enough. What he wouldn’t give to control the movement of time and collapse their futures in on each other into an intricately woven web.

Of course, Mickey couldn’t tell Ian any of that. Not that he didn’t trust him with the secret of his sexuality, rather he couldn’t bear the possibility of being rejected by his best friend. Instead, he did what he did best - blew through any chance of a conversation that would reveal the truths he was trying to suppress and gave a cheeky retort that brought an easiness back into the room.

"Only if I haven't killed you first for always hogging all the pizza rolls.” he reached over to grab at Ian’s plate for the remaining snack. The redhead shoved a hand in his face to stop him, but not before Mickey was able to pop it into his mouth with a grin. 

The boys worked to calm their giggles and exchanged sideways glances before focusing their attention back on the movie they hadn’t been paying attention to at all. The silence between them was charged with the energy of promises not yet spoken, both feeling an unfamiliar pull to close the space that kept them separated. 

Mickey could only imagine how warm Ian’s skin would feel under his touch and the fog in his brain was desperate to help him find out just how inviting it really was. Pretending to be uncomfortable, Mickey adjusted in his seat in what he hoped was a clever attempt at masking his ulterior motive.

From the other side of the couch, Ian felt Mickey shuffle in his seat before settling once again, a comfortable silence falling over them. Mickey had settled back into the couch, his legs splayed out carelessly, and began absentmindedly moving his leg side to side, occasionally bumping his knee into the redhead’s. Ian tried his best to focus on whatever story was unfolding on the screen but found it increasingly hard to focus with his skin on fire, and the fleeting touches Mickey initiated coursed electricity through his body every time. 

Before long, Mickey’s movements slowed with shuffles that ended in him keeping his knee pressed gently against Ian’s. The realization that Mickey Milkovich was touching him — actually touching him — and not flinching away, sent a jolt of lighting shooting up Ian's leg, through his spinal cord, and peaking at the crown of his head. Neither of them dared to move, too desperate to make infinite the sensation that set their soul alight, knowing it was only a matter of time before Mickey would get spooked and jerk his knee away. Ian spent the rest of the evening asking himself how it was possible for someone to sate every burning desire, yet leave him with an aching hunger all at the same time.


	3. alone together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter than the previous two.
> 
> "alone together" - geographer

By the time long summer days had left them basking in the warmth of their friendship, July and Little League season were both coming to an end. Their team rarely ever won games, so everyone was particularly excited when they won their last game of the season by Mickey hitting a home run in the bottom of the ninth inning. To celebrate their big win and the remaining month of summer that was left before school started again, their most popular teammate, Andrew, decided to throw together a last minute party for everyone on the team that night, in addition to inviting most of the eighth grade. 

Mickey met Ian outside the Gallagher house before walking to the party together. Most of their stroll was spent by Ian praising his best friend’s batting skills for single-handedly saving their game, and Mickey humbly dismissing it as just luck. Every time Mickey looked over to Ian, he was caught breathless by the way the dim street lights illuminated his pale face, making his skin look painfully soft. It took everything in him not to reach over and lightly press his fingertips into the redhead’s freckled cheeks. As soon as they walked through Andrew’s front door, Mickey mumbled something about going to get them food and disappeared through the crowd into the kitchen.

Ambling over to the living room, Ian awkwardly sat himself down on the couch, scanning every so often for any sign of Mickey and something to eat. To be honest, he didn’t even know what they were doing there — it wasn’t like they were that close with anyone else on their team and the party didn’t really seem like Mickey’s scene. Besides, everyone knew that Andrew’s parents kept their alcohol locked in a liquor cabinet in their garage, so with no plans of alcohol consumption, a party with a bunch of people they didn’t like could only be so interesting. Ian shuffled and adjusted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable sitting there all alone with no one to talk to. He sat quietly as he watched the rest of his classmates chattering with each other in their own little cliques and laughing at their inside jokes, jiggling his legs while he anxiously wondered where Mickey had gone and what was taking him so freaking long. 

The star of the team knew what he was there for, and he wasn’t going to leave without it: free food and booze. Mickey shoved his way past all the annoying shitheads he tried so hard to avoid during the rest of the school year and grabbed as many bags of chips and cookies that he could carry in two hands. His classmates gawked at him with wide eyes, upset he was stealing all the good stuff, but too scared of him to say anything. He raised a confident eyebrow at their stares, shoved his way through the crowd again, and made his way to the garage.

As Ian sat there anxiously drumming his fingers on this thigh, time moved agonizingly slow, and after about 5 minutes, he couldn’t take it anymore. Ian got up from his seat on the couch and began making his way through the gross and sweaty clusters of pre-teens dancing to terrible music in search of Mickey. He was ending the long hallway on the first floor, when Mickey suddenly turned the corner and bumped right into him, arms overflowing with snacks. A sly smile crossed Mickey’s face as soon as they locked eyes.

“I swiped some whiskey from Andrew’s parents,” Mickey whispered, nodding his head down to the bottle bulging out of his front sweatshirt pocket. “Dumbasses should really get better locks if they’re gonna be hosting parties with a bunch of thirsty teenagers.” Ian rolled his eyes, secretly impressed Mickey had managed to pick a lock and steal so much food in that amount of time. 

“Whaddy’a say we ditch this rager and go get hammered on the field?”

Ian could tell he was grinning like an idiot, but he didn’t care. He’d jump at any opportunity to spend time alone with Mickey. “Hell yes.”

The boys made their way to the baseball field where they had won just a few hours before, laughing at funny things they’d seen earlier that day, and planning what movie they were going to watch at their sleepover tomorrow. It was the perfect summer night, the kind that people would write poems about. The moon shone brightly above them with not a cloud in the sky, the brightest stars fighting to make themselves known against the glow of the Chicago cityscape, while the humidity of the day forced their clothes to cling to their bodies. But when evening rolled a subtle breeze through, they sighed in comfort feeling the air cool the sweat that beaded on the back of their necks. 

Mickey hopped the fence first, landing with a  _ thud _ when his feet hit the dirt. “You ever trespass before, Gallagher?” he asked teasingly as Ian landed firmly beside him. 

"Shut up, I'm not a baby." Ian playfully punched the other boy's shoulder as they walked to the pitcher’s mound and sat beside each other in the grass in the middle of the field.

"I dunno," he tsked. "Those big puppy dog eyes you give when you don't get your way sure fool me. Sometimes, I worry if I look at you wrong you'll start cryin’." Mickey raised his eyebrows and let out a hearty laugh.

Ian huffed, "Says the guy who throws a temper tantrum every time we lose a game."

Mickey opened the bottle of whiskey, took a drink, and passed it to Ian. "Yeah, ‘cause I hate losin’,” he said matter-of-factly. “Maybe if my teammates hated it as much as I do, we wouldn't ever lose.”

"We won today, didn’t we? I'm just sayin’, you're not as tough as you think you are,” Ian snuck a sideways smile before taking a gulp and letting out a hacking cough, the liquor scorching his throat. 

Mickey knew Ian was right. This was just like when Ian told him he saw through his tough guy act at school. Somehow Ian had managed to find a way to burrow under his skin, plant himself and grow roots, creating a network of symbiotic fibers that opened the pathways for complete access to his unconscious. Having someone see through his hard exterior to his molten core made him feel extremely vulnerable, yet the realization of being  _ known  _ and accepted for every messy part was also oddly comforting. 

"Whatever. Quit bustin' my balls, man, and gimme some more of that shit," Mickey snarked, grabbing the bottle out of Ian's hand. 

"What're friends for?" Ian laughed.

Mickey chugged for a couple of seconds until his throat was raw and his nostrils burned. He could feel the warmth rising up his belly and flaring the vessels in his cheeks. Ian sat in bewilderment watching him down shot after shot of harsh whiskey before he handed the bottle back to him. Letting out a belch, Mickey fell back and allowed himself to melt into cool grass underneath him, his eyes fixed on the starry sky above. They stayed there for a moment, enjoying the sound of locusts buzzing around them and the quiet of each other’s company.

"Thanks."

"For what?" Ian mirrored Mickey's movements and layed down too, turning his head to stare at his friend with wide eyes. 

The alcohol buzzed through Mickey, threatening to make him utter every thought that popped into his head, regardless of how it might embarrass him later. "Come on, man. Don’t make me say it.” Not daring to meet eyes with the beautiful redhead lying next to him, he wondered if his face was flushed fire-engine red yet.

Ian continued staring back in confusion, his eyes fixed on Mickey’s burning cheeks.

“Ya know…for bein' my friend,” he trailed off and bashfully scratched the side of his nose.

Ian took another swig before placing the bottle in the grass, hoping it would be enough liquid courage to get him to say what was really on his mind. "You don't have to thank me. I'll always be your friend. I like being your friend." 

His heart thrumming in his chest, Ian was tired of keeping his feelings locked away, tired of not being able to tell his best friend how the sun shone brighter and the world hurt just a little bit less when they were together. Over the past few months, they had seen each other at their best and their worst. He trusted Mickey, and had a strong inclination that Mickey trusted him too. 

"I like you, Mickey,” Ian uttered softly, the alcohol making his head swim. 

The redhead turned on his side so his whole body faced the other boy and propped himself up on his elbow, made breathless by the way the beams of the full moon danced gently across Mickey’s profile. Did Mickey know the way the moonlight turned his eyelashes into feathers, and how the sight alone had Ian dreaming of how they would tickle his cheek? Did he know the way it made his hair sparkle and shine like obsidian, or the way the contrasting shadows made his lips look plump and ungodly sweet? Did he know how beautiful he was? Could he?

When Mickey turned his head to meet smoldering green eyes, he felt that familiar pull that he’d been great at resisting thus far, but he was drunk now, and no longer wanted to strain himself against the attraction that so obviously was there. It had always been there, as much he tried to avoid it, but the alcohol surging through his veins made sure that any feeble attempts shoving it back into his secret place were futile. 

They were so close that Mickey could taste the hint of whiskey on Ian’s breath without even touching and it made him horribly dizzy. All those nights he lied awake wondering if his lips tasted as honeyed as they looked, yet here he was about to find out, and he couldn’t tear himself away. 

Mickey moved to his side and closed the gap between them, the tension in the air twisting their insides into knots and making them nauseous. Like an invisible magnet drawing him in, he inched closer to meet Ian’s lips before his brain could register what the hell was going on. There was no time for thinking, this was pure instinct. If he thought too much about the fact he was about to kiss Ian Gallagher — the boy who he thought hated him just six months ago, the boy who made him realize why life was worth living, the boy who he had feelings for and who obviously had feelings for him — he would have combusted. 

But before they were able to press their mouths together, they were blinded by the overhead lights suddenly illuminating the field. A voice off in the distance shouted, “Hey! What’re you kids doing out there?” as they scrambled to their feet, grabbed the scattered snack bags and whiskey bottle, and took off running. 

To avoid both getting caught, they took off in opposite directions. Ian yelled after Mickey with a smile and giggle, “I’ll see you tomorrow!” before they both disappeared into the night. 

Adrenaline raged through Ian as he jumped the fence and pumped his legs through winding alleys. He was high as a kite and more giddy than he had ever been before, having to pinch his arm a few times to remind himself that no, he was in fact _ not _ dreaming. He had powered through any remaining fear left within and told Mickey Milkovich that he liked him. And instead of rejecting him, Mickey actually tried to  _ kiss  _ him. He wondered what tomorrow would bring, if things would be awkward, or if Mickey would try to pretend like it never happened, but decided he didn’t care. He knew how Mickey felt - it was evident in the way he licked his lips and flickered his blue eyes up to meet his green. The atmospheric charge around them was completely irrefutable and Ian knew that even if Mickey tried to deny it, it wouldn’t last for long.

Mickey couldn’t help but smile the whole way home, the euphoria from the whiskey shooting him through the sky and landing him on cloud nine. Forget Terry, forget anguish and depression and self-loathing, forget any violence he might face from someone finding out he almost kissed a boy. Not just any boy, but scrawny shy ginger Ian Gallagher — his best friend. In this moment, it didn’t matter if this would make his future incredibly risky and terrifying, because Ian felt like a risk worth taking.

Running back home to the safety of their beds, they felt the weightlessness that came with shared honesty — this unspoken pact that formed when they looked into each other’s eyes, this unfathomable trust they succumbed to when they were alone against a timeless universe. They never had to tell the other what they were thinking, but rather felt the truth of requited love rest deep in the marrow of their bones.


	4. don't come back for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: in-character use of homophobic slur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "don't come back for me" - jaymes young

Mickey woke up early the next morning in a cold sweat with a pounding headache. As he replayed the events of the night before in his mind, he couldn’t help feel an uneasiness settle in his chest. In his drunken state he had tried to kiss Ian, there was no denying that. But the movement was subtle, so maybe Ian hadn’t noticed...right? There was no question that some _thing_ was shared between them, though a part of him hoped that Ian had been too intoxicated to realize.

It was Saturday, and like every Saturday at 6pm, Ian and Mickey had plans for their weekly movie night and sleepover. Mickey spent most of the day flopping around on his bed an anxious mess, sighing and grunting as the thought that he had ruined their friendship relentlessly tormented his mind. He tried to nap on and off, hoping that lack of consciousness would help quiet the mental chatter, but every time he was close to falling asleep he was jolted awake by the memory of Ian’s breath on his.

As evening approached, Mickey couldn’t control the nausea that continued to rise up his gut. Was everything going to be awkward between them now? Could they ever go back to the way it was before? Or worse, what if Ian suddenly had the confidence to initiate something more? Drunk Mickey was fearless and daring with his emotions, willing to risk opening the box inside he’d kept locked for so long. But sober Mickey lacked the confidence to commit to exposing its contents to the rest of the world.

Despite Ian’s typical punctuality, 6pm came and went with no sign of him. Mickey vowed to never let Ian know the way he paced the living room until he was dizzy and constantly peeked his head out from behind the curtain every few seconds to see when the ginger would show. The next few hours dragged on tortuously, the night devolving into a rhythm of him flipping on the television for a few minutes, turning it off and staring at the still-hot screen for a few minutes more, then repeating again. No matter how many times he tried losing himself in it, his mind ultimately found a way to drift back to the night before, agonizing over all the ways he had fucked everything up.

When Mandy came home around 9pm after a night out with her friends, she immediately noticed his absence.

“Where’s Ian?”

“Dunno,” Mickey shrugged, feigning nonchalance, mindlessly watching a rerun of Jackass.

“Should’ve known he was gonna get tired of your weird ass sooner or later,” she snorted before heading into her bedroom and slamming the door.

Left alone with his thoughts yet again, panic continued to rise, flooding his entire being. As he sat on the couch, he felt the cushions pull him under and the walls of the living room close in, mocking his existence. His mind flashed to a week prior when he and Ian shared this space together, when things were simple and they could enjoy each other’s company without fear. When Mickey didn’t need to overthink. How could he have let things get so messy? Life was easier when he coiled his secrets tight around his ribs and suppressed his tongue from spilling out words of destruction. Last night was the perfect example of what _not_ to do, as he had broken all of his rules on self-preservation.

Whether Ian truly reciprocated the feelings or not, there was simply no way this would end well, no matter how Mickey spun it. Having people think he was gay even if it wasn’t true, or being an openly gay adolescent in this neighborhood with his raging homophobic father? He was dead either way.

Tired of the solitude suffocating him, Mickey grabbed a six pack from the kitchen and went back to his bedroom. He turned on his favorite metal album and cranked the volume to the max, working to drown out the cacophony in his head. With the crushing rhythms and screeching dissonance pounding its way into his chest, his anxiety crescendoed into anger. And with each beer he gulped down, anger became rage.

Fuck Ian. How dare he make him out to be some bitch. Is this what he wanted all along, to trick Mickey into falling for him just to out him to everyone? All those nights of whispers and laughter spent staring up at Mickey’s ceiling, all the stolen looks and sparkling eyes and promises of friendship even beyond the Southside streets - was it all just an act?

He should have known better than to trust a Gallagher. He should’ve known better than to think he could ever be himself, whoever that even was. Terry was right - Mickey was a stupid piece of shit, the world is full of liars, and it’s better to hurt others first before you let them hurt you. Perhaps Milkovich’s were better off only worrying about their kind.

As his rage crested, the months of happiness came crumbling down before him, until he couldn’t hold the self-hatred any longer and slammed his forehead into the wall with a guttural scream.

Mickey spent the rest of the night lying in bed chain smoking and chewing his nails until his fingers were raw, the alcohol dragging him under further still. 

* * *

The Sunday morning light bled its way through his bedroom curtains as Mickey rubbed sleepy rage out of his bleary eyes. With a night of unbridled self-loathing behind him, his anger with himself had only amplified his anger with Ian. Lighting a half-smoked cigarette from his nightstand, he made his way to the kitchen and cracked opened a beer from the fridge.

Mickey was a fucking mess and he knew it. He had been through plenty of shit in his life, but never remembered feeling such a roller coaster of emotions as he did last night. But he would be damned if he’d let a Gallagher ruin his life for him more than it already was.

He had smoked nearly a half a pack of cigarettes when his paranoia crept in and he realized there was a good chance that Ian had told Lip about what happened. And if Lip knew, all of Southside would soon know, including Terri, which was surely a death sentence. His mind flashed to an early memory he had of Terri beating the shit out of a stranger on the street just because he was walking in a way he thought a man shouldn’t. Mickey’s heart raced and he knew he needed to find out who Ian told to get ahead of this shit, and fast.

As he stormed to the Gallagher house, he barely noticed the pile of boxes and suitcases piled on the front lawn. Between Frank, Monica, or whatever batshit relatives of Ian’s were around, a bunch of junk strewn across the yard definitely wasn’t the strangest thing Mickey had seen there.

Mickey marched his way up the steps, determined to get some answers, and pounded on the door. After a few seconds of what sounded like commotion from Debbie & Carl, Fiona answered the door with a pitying look on her face and a half-hearted smile, “Hey, Mickey.”

“You seen Ian? We were supposed to hang out yesterday but he never showed,” Mickey huffed.

Fiona looked exhausted, her eyes bloodshot and cradled by dark rings underneath. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know where he is,” she sighed. “But, Mickey, I should tell you-”

“Whatever, don’t care. See ya.” He didn’t have time to listen to whatever nonsense Fiona was about to rattle off, especially if there was a chance half of the neighborhood knew what he was by now.

Mickey first made his way to their usual spot at the park near their houses, but when he couldn’t find Ian there, he tried the baseball field. As he approached the dugout, he was relieved to find him leaning against the fence smoking a cigarette - at least he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. But his relief quickly turned back to anger when he saw Ian glance up at him and immediately walk away.

“Ay, asshole! What’s your problem?” he shouted loud enough he was sure the whole block heard, but Ian just ignored him. Mickey continued yelling and running after him, “The fuck? Why are you avoidin’ me? I’m not a fuckin’ fag if that’s what you’re worried about!” When he caught up to Ian, he grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around to face him, seething.

“That’s the only reason you came looking for me, huh? To cover your ass?” he laughed darkly, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. Mickey could tell he had been crying.

“Twenty-four hours is plenty of time for you to run your mouth.”

“You think I’m gonna tell?” Ian took a step back, shocked and obviously hurt.

Mickey didn’t know what he thought but right now his fear of being outed to Terri was the only thing on his mind. Terri finding out would be the worst possible outcome and he desperately needed to do damage control if he wanted any chance of living to his 15th birthday. Right now, he couldn’t trust anyone but himself.

“If that’s what you think, then you obviously don’t know me at all. But then, I guess I don’t really know you either.”

“Fuck you, Gallagher!” He shoved Ian’s shoulders. “You know you’re my best friend.”

“Really, Mickey? Then why don’t you try being honest with me for once?” Hot tears were spilling out of his eyes as he got up in Mickey’s face.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” he spat.

“Let’s start with last night, shall we? Why don’t you tell me what the fuck that was.”

“I told you I’m not a fucking fag!”

“Do you even hear yourself, Mickey?! Do you really think our friendship is "normal"? Or the amount of sleepovers we have is normal? Do you honestly think I’ve never noticed the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention? What about the fact that you almost kissed me on the field last night! And don’t even think about pulling that ‘I was drunk’ bullshit on me. I _like_ you, Mickey, and I know you like me, too. As more than a friend. Why can’t you trust me with that?”

Mickey didn’t know how to trust. How could he trust someone with a part of himself he had been taught to loathe? Ian searched his piercing blue eyes for something - anything - that indicated Mickey didn’t really mean what he said, but he found nothing. All he could see was an angry boy too closeted to even admit it to the person he supposedly cared about the most.

Exasperated and dejected, Ian choked, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyways because I’m moving to Detroit. Tomorrow.”

Mickey felt like he had been kicked in the gut. He was about to lose his best friend, the boy who knew him better than he probably knew himself, but his lungs collapsed in his chest before he had the chance to beg him not to go. And he fucking hated himself for it.

“Fiona told me yesterday. _That’s_ why I didn’t come around last night....I was too upset.”

Mickey was faced with an impossible decision, but how could he admit to Ian his feelings for him when he hadn’t even really admitted it to himself yet? Where was all that courage he had just two days ago? God, how he would kill to get some of that back. He tried to say something - anything - that showed Ian even a glimmer of truth. That, yes, he did like him and that somehow Ian made him feel like a burning August afternoon and a melting block of ice all at once. He tried, he really did, but he choked on every word before it reached his throat.

Ian held out hope for a response, but Mickey’s stoic silence said it all, and Ian had no more energy left in him to fight.

“So that’s it,” he looked up at him with watered eyes. “We’re probably never going to see each other again and you still can’t be honest with me about how you feel. Good to know how much I really meant to you.” Ian sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Have a nice life, Mickey.”

Head bowed and shoulders slumped, the redhead picked up his backpack at the edge of the dugout, slung it over his shoulder and, with streams pouring down his cheeks, sauntered back home.

It was all Mickey could do but to stand, mouth agape, watching the closest thing to freedom he had ever tasted slip right through his fingers. When the shadow of Ian was no longer in sight, he finally let his guard down and allowed the tears to fall, collapsing into pieces on the dust below.


End file.
